Earth has no deadlier foe, than faithless friend,

The thrust descends where most secure we feel; The viper, sleeping in the breast, may send

A pang more fatal than the assassin's steel. All other wounds some medicine may heal, Hope wipes the tear from suffering's haggard eye, Time soothes the soul where grief has set its seal; But who may balm to wounded heart apply? When friends we've loved grow cold, 'tis time for us to die!

1835.

WRITTEN ON THE FIRST PAGE OF A SISTER'S

ALBUM.

There is one who hath gone to his rest,

Whose name on this page should appear, Though the grave where he slumbers no marble hath pressed;

Embalmed by affection in many a breast,

His mem'ry shall ever be dear.

We weep not, though lowly he lies,

Enshrouded in coldness and gloom,

Though the breeze that sweeps over him mournfully sighs,

And the dews of the evening, like tears from the skies,

In silence descend on his tomb.

He sleeps with his people around,

For whom he long laboured with tears;

The rest of the weary at length he hath found, And sweet is his slumber, though low in the

ground,

Earth's tumult no longer he hears.

His heart was acquainted with grief,
He wept when the world knew it not,

Whilst others deserted, he stood by his chief;
When friends looked on coldly, he found a relief,
Where the mourner is never forgot.

Though hoary the locks of his head,

'Twas not with the blossom of years;

Not time o'er his cheek those deep furrows had

spread,

But care her white frosts o'er his temples had

shed,

Those lines were the channels of tears.

Worn out by the race he had run,

He hath gone to enjoy his reward,

To present to his master the souls he has won,

And receive from his lips the glad welcome, "Well done,

"Enter into the joy of thy Lord.”

Death came not in terrors arrayed,

Rejoicing he went to the tomb;

Though he walked through the valley, he was not

afraid,

For his Saviour was near, in the midst of the

shade,

And lit up his path through the gloom.

No more his kind smile we shall meet,
His voice shall address us no more;
The sinner no longer with tears he'll entreat,
Nor over the emblems the story repeat,
His labours and sorrows are o'er.

There are souls in the ranks of the blest,
Who have welcomed their pastor above,

And others he'll greet as they rise to their rest,
And unite with his people, where naught can mo-

lest,

In the praise of Immanuel's love.

Though distant his spirit has fled,

From the regions of darkness and wo,

In silence he speaks from the land of the dead

66

My people remember the words that I said,

"While yet I was with you below."

1837.

THE SPIRIT'S HOME.

On the cloud-covered mount, o'er the foam of the

waves,

In her wanderings the spirit hath been,

Hath walked 'mid the coral in ocean's dark caves,

And the ruins of empires hath seen.

To commune with the mighty who quake on the throne,

To regions remote she hath fled,

Hath gazed on the captives in darkness who groan, And wept o'er the fields of the dead.

'Mid the orbs that wheel nightly their course through the sky,

On fancy's wild wing she hath strayed, Where Nature sits throned in her temple on high, In the robes of her grandeur arrayed.

From the verge of creation, where chaos appears,

She hath looked o'er Jehovah's domains;

Hath witnessed secure the wild dance of the

spheres,

And heard their mysterious strains.

With spirits departed communion to hold,
She hath sought the retreats of the dead,
Conversed with the shades of the heroes of old,
And mourned with the brave who have bled.
She hath gone to the tomb of affection to weep,
Where friendship in darkness has lain;

And fancy has roused the cold form from its sleep,
And arrayed it in beauty again.

She hath turned from the darkness and frailty below,

From the brightness and coldness above,

From the land of the dead, in its silence and wo, To repose in the bosom of love.

As

weary the dove o'er the waters did roam,

When the earth in the deluge was drowned, The spirit must wander unblest, 'till its home In the heart of affection is found.